


The Artist Formerly Known as Ansel Monroe

by sasabrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasabrina/pseuds/sasabrina
Summary: Ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry has become Head Auror and Draco has managed to move on from the War. They are, in many ways, very much changed from the boys they once were. Can love live in changed hearts? Or will the world tear them apart?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Harry gave a tight smile to man sitting across from him. He was a good enough looking fellow. A little too young for Harry’s tastes but was initially friendly and keen enough when this date began.

 _Then again,_ Harry thought, _they’re all keen._

It was a hazard that Harry had learned to live with. Ever since the fall of Voldemort ten years ago, Harry Potter had simply lived with the fact that he was someone people wanted to be around. He never liked it but he had accepted it. Admittedly, his celebrity had waned somewhat. It was, at least, considerably less than it was immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts. But it was still enough to be an inconvenience in his life. The Daily Prophet relished publishing stories about his attempts at dating. It was a constant thorn on his side to have to endure the occasional reporter surreptitiously speaking to a Quick-Quote Quill while he had dinner with the flavor of the month. It had the added con of making the relationships did have short-lived. At least, that was what he told himself. In truth, Harry Potter was secretly grateful that the constant hounding by reporters gave him or his date the convenient excuse of breaking things off within a month. It went both ways. Sometimes, it would be the witch or wizard who’d break things off (they couldn’t handle the press, they’d say). Sometimes, it would be Harry (they enjoyed the press a little too much, he’d secretly think to himself).

Anthony, Harry could already tell, was of the latter ilk. The date had been set up by Angelina Weasley. Anthony was her cousin’s girlfriend’s distant family relation who had just moved to London to work at Gringotts. He was good looking enough with his angular jawline and boyish face talking animatedly about the intricacies of some topic that Harry was not following.

They had decided to have dinner at a posh restaurant that had just opened in Diagon Alley. A place simply called Ivory. It was not a place Harry would have chosen to go to had Anthony not been so insistent. The entire interior of the place was decorated and furnished in pure white. The waitstaff were dressed entirely in white formal robes. Even their shoes were white. _Not entirely practical working in a busy kitchen all day_ , Harry thought. The food came served in white plates Harry prayed did not come from elephants.

But it wasn’t just the choice of restaurant that bothered Harry. Throughout the entire night Anthony was being too touchy for Harry’s comfort. Always reaching his hand across the table. If he wasn’t holding Harry’s hand completely, Anthony was making little circles on the back of Harry’s hand. He even tried feeding Harry some of the white soup that Harry was certain wasn’t supposed to be white. 

At first Harry paid no mind to it. Perhaps Anthony was just a physical person by nature. Nothing wrong with that if Harry was completely honest. But then he saw it. Over the years Harry had developed a keen sense of when a camera was pointed in his direction. Living in the public eye will do that. About halfway through dessert he spotted the flicker of a failing Disillusionment charm and the man with the camera it was trying to hide. Harry looked around the restaurant at the other guests. Most of them were couples or groups enjoying the extremely overpriced food and sneaking the occasional glance at Harry’s direction. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The waitstaff looked too overworked to even care about him. 

_There_.

Tucked in a booth near the entrance such that Harry would not have noticed her going in was a witch sitting all by herself with nothing but a glass of wine on the table. _Hardly touched,_ Harry guessed. The little brunette witch with wild black hair was extremely busy writing into a little notepad. Harry noted that from where she sat, she had a clear line of sight to his table, as he did to hers. 

And just then, the witch looked up to glance in Harry’s direction. Harry caught her gaze and the two of them stared at each other for a moment. The witch’s eyes widened in a sudden realization: she had been caught.

Harry looked away and heaved a heavy sigh. Anthony had been good looking enough and Harry fancied that he would have been perfectly fine for a tumble after dinner. But if the press were already involved he’d rather not have a play-by-play of his bedroom escapades splattered all over the next morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet. And judging by the way Anthony seemed to keep _posing_ with him, Harry suspected that it was the man across from him who had informed the reporters of their whereabouts for the evening. They usually were, after all.

After insisting on paying for dinner (he was already being watched, might as well seem like a generous date to the Prophet readers) Harry declined Anthony’s offer to have coffee at his flat. He and Anthony walked together to the Leaky Cauldron Harry making only polite conversation on the way. It was stressful for Harry, maintaining the public image of the Boy Who Lived when all he really wanted to do was Apparate away without another word. But it was the only way Harry knew he’d survive this kind of life. A younger him would have lashed out at the reporter, no questions asked. But nowadays he had a life and a career to think about. He had friends, family, and causes he cared about. Being The Boy Wonder, Harry found, worked well to keep the hordes of press away from them.

Thoughts like this always lead him back to thinking of Ginny. Of how their breakup had been splashed across every newspaper in Wizarding London. The Prophet made a newsrun of THE BOY WHO LIVED, BACHELOR AT LAST! It was chaos. The press dug up everything they could on Ginny and made every possible conjecture as to why they had broken up. It had gotten even worse a few months later when Harry came out as bisexual by way of photographs of him drunkenly kissing a fellow Junior Auror outside a nightclub in London. At that point, Ginny’s name was being dragged, torn apart, and smeared by the press so much that Ron stopped talking to Harry altogether. 

After avoiding a kiss from Anthony, wishing him goodnight and all but pushing him into the fireplace, Harry Floo-ed himself to Grimmauld Place. He stepped out into his own home, relieved to have had the evening done with and to have avoided any situation with the press. He already knew that photos of his date would be all over the Prophet. And while he loathed the thought, the thought of the headline reading “HEAD AUROR ASSAULTS PROPHET REPORTER” made Harry break out into a cold sweat. Better to have his personal life splashed for all to see than to be tried for violence against the press.

Silence greeted Harry as he stepped into Twelve Grimmauld Place, which was how it usually was these days. After Kreacher’s death years ago, the first thing Harry did was to move every Black family heirloom that was not stuck to the walls with a Permanent Sticking Charm into his vault in Gringotts and Vanish everything else. After that, he had offered the house to Andromeda who politely declined, saying that it was no place to raise young Teddy in, which Harry had to concede as the house had begun to rot and deteriorate from the years of neglect. For a while he had considered making contact with Narcissa Malfoy but quickly scrapped the idea in favor of just having the entire house renovated to be lighter and less _wizard-y_. This was a challenge in itself considering that the house was so averse to being changed. It had taken an entire team of specialists almost half a year to get the house under control. They had been able to renovate and refurbish the upper floors into something that wasn’t miserable to live in. 

It was for this reason that Harry currently enjoyed the luxury of stepping directly into the office he kept on the first floor, avoiding the vast, gloomy ground floor (and Walburga Black) altogether. 

“Hello there, girl,” Harry said to Freya, his brown little owl, “anything new come in for me today?”

Freya ruffled her feathers and seemed to rolled her eyes impatiently at Harry. This made Harry chuckle. Freya had always had an attitude and often displayed annoyance towards him. For this, Harry blamed himself for spoiling her. He handed Freya some owl treats which she promptly began to ignore, closing her eyes determinately. Harry knew what this meant. With a fond sigh he opened one of the windows in his study. The moment he did, Freya landed on his shoulder, gave him an affectionate peck on the ear, and flew out into the night to hunt.

As he watched her tiny form disappear into the busy city, Harry sighed. Now, he was truly alone. And for Harry Potter, Head Auror, that usually meant it was time to attend to whatever urgent matter required his attention.

Harry turned to the large mahogany desk at the center of the study. It was covered with all sorts of pieces of parchment bearing the letterheads of various divisions of the Ministry, media outlets and private entities, all begging for Harry’s time and attention. But what grabbed Harry’s attention and what made him immediately reach for his own stationary and quill was the evening edition of The Prophet, dropped right at the center of his mess of a desk. Its headline read:

“ **FORMER** **DEATH EATER LUCIUS MALFOY, DEAD.** ”


	2. Chapter 2

Draco hadn’t even been in England for more than twenty four hours and his mother was already upset with him.

Granted, it was Draco’s fault for arriving in the evening when his mother had been expecting him earlier that day. Narcissa had little patience for tardiness. And granted the circumstances, she had every right to be upset. 

But it was not his fault that the international Portkey he scheduled from France to Wiltshire was delayed by hours. This was in spite of all the bureaucratic palms Draco had greased to expedite the process. Marcel, the sweaty Frenchman who personally delivered the Portkey (an empty tuna can) to Draco’s residence, had explained the difficulty of acquiring the Portkey without attracting the attention of the press. At least, he had tried to explain as Draco slammed the door in his face.

Draco was also very upset, given the circumstances. There was little love lost between him and his father in the aftermath of the war. In fact, Draco saw Lucius only a handful of times since the latter's release from Azkaban. Each time, the man who at one time could make Draco flinch at the mere rapping of his cane had been frailer and more silent. It was as if the Dementors that had once guarded the wizarding prison had followed Lucius Malfoy to his self-imposed prison. But Draco had idolized his father at a time in his life and had always, despite everything, loved him. 

Narcissa sighed from the doorway of Draco’s room. “You will have to stop by Madame Malkin’s for dress robes. I imagine you no longer own such items.”

Draco winced at the last comment. Formal dress robes were not a priority when one was on a self-imposed exile from wizarding society. And Draco had been on such exile for the last ten years. It was just like his mother to throw him into the proverbial deep end, right smack in the middle of Diagon Alley. 

“I shall head there within the week,” Draco said, his voice as steady as he could manage and his eyes intent on the trunk he was currently unpacking.

Narcissa nodded from her spot at the doorway.

Draco took a moment to look at his mother. The lines in her eyes had gotten much deeper from when Draco had seen her last. Her hair had also begun to turn gray though one could hardly tell against her already blonde hair. All in all, Narcissa Malfoy had hardly changed in the last ten years. 

_ Which is more than most of us can say _ .

“The garden house is ready for you, as requested,” Narcissa said seemingly unwilling to leave her son alone. 

“Thank you, Mother,” Draco replied, “I shall move my things in after Madame Malkin’s.”

“Have Bity go with you if you need assistance.”

Draco shot her an exasperated look. “I can handle it myself, Mother.” he said. 

Narcissa only tightened her lips, a tell Draco had long ago learned meant that she was getting impatient with him. But right now, Draco lacked the emotional capacity to deal with his mother’s annoyance so he continued on to ignore her.

“Well, darling, if there’s nothing else, I shall leave you alone,” Narcissa’s voice rang with a tone that made Draco’s chest ache. It sounded like the shattering of glass into a million tiny pieces. 

That was Draco’s only true regret for the past ten years: that he had left his mother alone. Narcissa had insisted, after the catastrophe that was Lucius Malfoy’s transfer from Azkaban to the Manor, that Draco stay away from England as long as he possibly could. While the vindictive Auror who managed to curse Lucius got his time in Azkaban, Lucius Malfoy spent the rest of his life wasting away from a curse the best Healers in the world (those still willing to deal with the Malfoys, that is) could only partially cure. 

And Narcissa Malfoy had spent that time alone.

Draco could hardly imagine what it was like for his mother, alone in a grand house with nothing but the shell of her husband to keep her company. In her letters to him, Narcissa spared him none of the details of his father’s condition: only strong enough to get up to the window and watch the day go by, no longer speaking to or recognizing anyone. Draco knew that his absence from England was for his own safety. And in all honesty, he was glad for the escape. His only true regret was that he could not take his mother. 

_ Oh Mother, I am so very sorry I wasn’t here. _

“Are you sure you don’t want to take the master bedroom?” Narcissa asked, breaking the silence between them. 

“It’s your room Mother, I wouldn’t want to put you out.” 

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully at this. “I haven’t been sleeping there for a while now, Draco. And I doubt the house would let me in… Now that you’re father’s gone…” Narcissa paused. Draco waited patiently for her to continue. The matter of the Manor was a complicated one. With his father now dead, Draco was the patriarch of the Malfoy family. This meant that the ancestral magic built into house was centered on him and on his presence in the Manor. The house would bend to his will. But not to his mother’s. 

And therein lay the problem.

After ten years, Draco doubted he could call the Manor home. It contained too much of the War, too much of Draco’s old life--the life he had worked so hard to distance himself from. If it was entirely up to him, he would be happy to let the house waste away. But his mother would not even hear talk of moving. So Draco had to return. For his mother if not for anything else.

Narcissa let out another deep sigh. Whatever grief Draco was feeling, he knew it paled in comparison to his mother’s. Very few things in his childhood and upbringing stood out to Draco as truly good and pure, his parents’ love and devotion to one another was one of those things. Their marriage was arranged, like any good pureblood union. But in it, Lucius and Narcissa had found true companionship and trust in each other. That love had spilled over to Draco. And that love was all Draco could hope for for himself.

Draco let out his own deep sigh, rose from the chair in which he sat, and made his way towards Narcissa, whose cheeks were now glistening with tears. If there was one thing Draco could never stand, it was seeing his mother cry.  _ When did Mother become so small? _ Draco wondered as he wrapped his arms around his mother. Narcissa allowed herself to fall into her son’s embrace, grasping his coat and crying into his shirt. Draco rested his chin on the top of his mother’s graying head and felt his own tears slowly stream down his face. 

In that moment, Draco vowed, against his better judgment and nature, that he would do everything in his power to make his mother happy.  _ It’s what Father--no. It’s what I should have done all those years ago _ . 

And Draco knew exactly what that meant. And why it would be so difficult for him to give Narcissa everything she had ever wanted for him. Narcissa Malfoy was a pureblood witch and, while she loved her son with all her heart, she was a product of the tradition of the old wizarding families. A tradition that valued the continuity of heritage. 

“Oh, Draco, I’ve ruined your...shirt,” Narcissa said, unfamiliar with the Muggle clothing that Draco had come home wearing. 

Draco gave her a small smile and kissed her forehead. She truly was tiny compared to when he last saw her. 

“Don’t worry about it, Mother,” Draco said, “I don’t plan on wearing it again.”

To this, Narcissa gave a large smile. It made Draco’s heart break just a little. She looked up at her son and cupped his cheek like she often did when Draco was still in short trousers. Draco savored the warmth of her hand and the unique comfort it gave him. He had not realized how much he missed his mother’s touch.

“That’s wonderful, darling,” Narcissa said through the last of her tears, “and I hope you’ll consider losing the beard as well.”


	3. Chapter 3

There are very few people who get to experience Diagon Alley before sunrise. The strange feeling of walking through the deserted street, usually so full of life and activity. The darkness of most of the shops whose proprietors are yet to rise. The pleasant smell of sweets just beginning to waft through the windows of Fortescue’s and the Leaky Cauldron. It was being alone in the best place on earth--free from curious eyes and nosey people. It was one of Harry’s most favorite things in the world.

Madame Malkin had stopped attending to her shop five years ago, choosing to retire to a quiet life in the countryside. Nowadays, the twins Ermelinda and Eustace Malkin, her children, have taken over their mother’s business. With the closure of Twilfitt and Tattings shortly after Malkin’s retirement, business has never been better for Madame Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions. The talent of the twins in everyday wear (Eustace) and higher-quality affairs (Emelinda) ensured that the robe shop was one of the busiest and biggest in Diagon Alley.

This presented a problem for clients like Harry, who, through no fault of his own, preferred to be fitted for robes in a discreet manner. And for this, Madame Malkin’s had a solution. Ermelinda, as she was wont to do, was kind enough to open early to accommodate Harry for a private fitting.

This is why he was surprised to see another person in the second floor fitting rooms already standing on the small platform being measured by several floating, animated tape measures. Ermelinda stood beside the stranger, no, the blonde, taking notes on a floating pad of parchment.

“Oh, Mr. Potter,” Ermelinda greeted him the moment he reached the top of the stairwell that lead to Ermelinda’s part of the store, “I shall be with you in a moment. Mr. Malfoy if just about finished. Would you like some tea? Coffee?”

Harry merely nodded and returned to staring at the back of the platinum blonde that stood in front of Ermelinda’s three-sided mirror. 

Malfoy turned around to face Harry. For the first time, Harry fully saw how ten years had changed him. He was definitely tanner and his hair was no longer long and slicked back. It was, instead, short and parted to the side. He was still incredibly slim but Harry could see the soft ripple of lean muscle through his plain long-sleeved shirt. The biggest change, however, was the short beard that graced his jawline and chin and the thin moustache that now seemed to live on Draco Malfoy’s upper lip. Harry found himself unable to look away from Draco Malfoy.

“Mr. Potter, tea or coffee?”

Ermelinda’s impatient tone broke Harry's bewilderment. “Oh, coffee will be fine thank you.”

Ermelinda flicked her wand and a french press, a coffee cup, and two small jars appeared on a side table near where Harry was standing. Harry busied himself putting too much sugar than was good for him into the cup while processing the fact that he was suddenly in the presence of a man that had disappeared from the face of the earth for ten years.

_ Well, it wasn’t that he had literally disappeared _ . For a while, the whereabouts of the Malfoy heir had been subject to speculation by the wizarding press. After the War and the acquittal of the Malfoys, Narcissa and Lucius had shut themselves off within the confines of Malfoy Manor. And Harry could hardly blame them. The much-publicized trial of Auror McGillan for the torture and cursing of Lucius Malfoy revealed that, though acquitted before the Wizengamot, there were many in wizarding Britain who believed that the Malfoys’ redemption was ill-deserved. It was a shame, really. 

“Having a little de ja vu, Potter?” Harry looked up to meet Malfoy’s eyes through the mirror. 

“I suppose I am,” Harry answered. It felt like a lifetime since their first encounter as eleven year-olds in that very same establishment.

Malfoy let out a deep chuckle, a sound that Harry felt reverberate deep in his stomach. “I’d ask how you’ve been,” Draco said, pinning Harry’s gaze through the mirror, “but there isn’t anything Harry Potter does that the press isn’t willing to write about.”

Harry felt his face heat up. If they had been ten years younger, Harry would have taken that as an insult. But Draco’s tone was light and his blue eyes were lit with mischief. Harry felt a lump form in his throat as he found himself unable to look away from the specks of blue in the mirror.

“And how about you?” Harry heard himself ask, “there isn’t much news of the Malfoy family these days.” Harry, in private horror, only realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth.

To this, Harry saw Malfoy’s forehead wrinkle a tiny bit. But the harsh lines of a frown quickly smoothed into a neutral expression. It was a look much more befitting of the Draco Malfoy Harry remembered: haughty, cold, and cruel. The strange part was that now, Harry could feel his heart beating so strongly that it was a wonder nobody else could hear it.

Thankfully it was at this moment that Ermelinda, who had apparently left the room, returned with a still-yawning Eustace.

“Mr. Potter, it seems that Mr. Malfoy’s fitting will take more time than I’d expected. If it’s alright with you, Eustace will handle your fitting.” Ermelinda said as another platform and three-faced mirror appear right beside the one Malfoy was standing on.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry took off his work robes and stood on top of the platform. Eustace began charming the tape measures and soon, Harry had his own set of tape measures and ribbons zipping around his body. 

They stood in silence for the rest of the fitting, neither saying so much as a word to each other. Eustace and Ermelinda hardly seemed to notice. Both twins chatting freely between themselves while every kind of cloth draped and pinned itself to Harry and Malfoy. Harry, on his part, spent his time wallowing in guilt and wondering  _ why, in Merlin’s name, didn’t I think before opening my mouth _ ?

After what, in Harry’s mind, felt like forever, Ermelinda announced that Malfoy was done. Harry tried not to watch as Malfoy descended from the platform, picked up a pile of robes neatly folded on a stool beside his mirror, and briskly put on his coat and robes. He was facing away from Harry, so there was no way to read the expression on Malfoy’s face. 

Harry decided to take a leap in the dark.

“If you could wait for me to finish,” Harry started before his brain could talk his mouth out of speaking, “there’s a lovely restaurant that does a great breakfast I could take you to.”

Malfoy turned around and raised one eyebrow at Harry. Harry fought the urge to swallow. 

_ Pull yourself together. _

“If you’d like,” Harry hurried to clarify.

Malfoy closed the final clasp on his robe, not taking his eyes off Harry. For a moment, Harry saw a tiny glint of mischief in Malfoy’s eyes, quickly quashed into a neutral, considerate expression.

This was when Harry began thinking that he had severely miscalculated. Why would Draco Malfoy, someone who he was never on really good terms with and who he had just royally offended, want to join him for breakfast? In what universe was it possible for him and Malfoy to enjoy conversation over coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs?  _ Oh Merlin, where is my brain today? _

Harry heard Malfoy say something.

“I’m sorry?” Harry asked.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I said yes, Potter. Now kindly please stop craning your neck so far out, you’re making things difficult for Mister Malkin.” With a graceful swoop of his robes, Malfoy settled himself in a comfortable-looking chair that materialized a little ways from where Harry was standing. Harry could feel the irritation rise up his throat.  _ At least Malfoy hasn’t lost his flare for the dramatic _ . 

“Thank you, Eustace,” Draco said after he sat down, “And if you could please kindly hurry, I would be ever so grateful. Auror Potter has brought up breakfast and I’m dying for some sausages.”

At that, Harry felt the irritation bubble freely out his throat as laughter. 

_ I’m probably going crazy _ .


End file.
